Twice
by winter machine
Summary: Something a little different for a special birthday prompt: Mark and Addison. Babies.  Happy.  In other words, here's your chance to read some shameless fluff to heal the sadness caused by a steady diet of angst.


**A/N: **_This story was a birthday present for the fabulous Rachael, who requested "Happy Maddison with babies." Babies, plural! And happy, what an odd request! However, birthday girl gets what birthday girl wants, so here's a break from my usual angst stew for some Happy Maddison with babies. You can read this anywhere in time or place you want - it could be in New York and she never went to Seattle, or it could all be post this year's season finale. Oh, and there are adult themes. It **IS** still me, after all._

_Somewhere, someplace, Mark and Addison might have two babies, they might be happy, and it might go something like this... _

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><p><strong>Twice<strong>

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><p>"They're both asleep?"<p>

"Yup." He folds his arms, looking smug.

Addison checks her watch. "With three hours left until I'm forty-" Mark coughs politely to cover the next part of her age.

"Any ideas for how to use those three hours?"

"_Yes._" Addison smirks at him, winding a strand of hair around her finger. "I'd like to take off all my clothes, get into bed - and _sleep like a log._"

She can't help but laugh at his expression of outraged disappointment. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm just so exhausted. We have two kids under the age of four, Mark. Sex is something for when they're in college."

"As smart as they are, I still don't think they're getting into college soon enough for me."

"How about if I put on my pajamas, but you can watch?"

"That's a good start."

"Unzip me?"

"That's an even better one."

He lifts her hair off her neck, pressing his lips gently to the uncovered skin, and drags the zipper as slowly as possible down her back. Still holding her hips, he turns her around gently and slides the navy cocktail dress over her shoulders and down her arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake. She tilts forward, a soft exhalation of breath against his skin, and leans her head into his neck.

"You _are _tired." He massages the back of her neck sympathetically and she burrows further against him. The dress drops forgotten to the floor and he wraps his arms around her warm bare skin, ticking lighting at the hollow at the base of her spine. She presses closer to him and makes a soft appreciative noise into his neck.

"And you are not so tired, I see."

"Not so much," he admits, letting his hand float lower, cupping around her and rocking her against him. Her breath catches in her throat.

"Mark, the -" she stops talking as his lips find the sensitive spots at the base of her throat. When she opens her eyes they're heavy-lidded with lust. "I forgot what I was going to say," she slurs gently.

"I've still got it?"

"I don't want to swell your head even more."

"You're swelling something."

"_Mark._"

"Sorry."

He takes her by the shoulders, moves her gently away to look at her. Black lace is all that separates his fingers from the smoothness of her skin, and he lets his eyes roam where his hands long to follow.

"You look beautiful."

"I'm getting old."

"Hardly."

"I will be at midnight."

He glances at the bedside clock. "That's hours from now. So, what do you say we-"

"The kids." She shakes her head. "You know they hear everything."

It's true. In fact, he's almost certain his daughters were born with an extra-sensory ability to predict when their parents are most likely to attempt to take their evening to the next level, and choose _that _particular moment to express a desperate need for water/comfort/stories/lights/important questions (last night it was: "Why don't girl lions have ruffly hair too?").

They could lock them out, of course. They could insist on bedtime as a wall, stop answering their admittedly adorable questions, stop crawling on their hands and knees under pink dust ruffles to check for monsters, stop bringing extra cups of water (red plastic with hearts for Vivian, green plastic with a yellow frog for Gable) and goodnight kisses.

Some parents do.

They won't.

It's something they agree on wholeheartedly: between Mark's physically absent parents and Addison's emotionally absent ones, they know they need something more than modeling to create the home they want. Open doors. Security. Time spent together.

He loves his daughters. More than he thought he would, admittedly. He didn't know what it would be like, couldn't have imagined it the way it turned out. He loves the time he spends with them: loves piling with all three of his girls on the overstuffed couch to share movies and juiceboxes, loves sneaking them out to let Addison sleep an extra hour on Sundays and coming back with a daughter on each arm and a sack of fresh bagels. He loves listening to them chatter to each other: Vivian adorably bossy, Gable holding her own. They play endless pretend games that sometimes end in tears, but their laughter makes it worth it. It makes everything worth it.

Even the fact that as much as he loves their family life together, right now he wants nothing more for one night than just himself and Addison, locked in a room, for record-breaking, mind-blowing, earth-shattering-

"Mark?"

"Yeah." He snaps back to reality. A delicious reality, because Addison suddenly looks much wider awake, and she twines her arms around his neck with definite intent.

"Maybe if we can be very, very, _very _quiet..."

"I have a better idea. How about I give you your birthday present a little early?"

Addison looks doubtful. "You know I can't be quiet during those. Remember two years ago? I was so hoarse the next day I had to fake laryngitis for a departmental meeting. But Amy had the kids, so..."

"Just wait until you see the present. Then you can decide."

Addison narrows her eyes slightly. "Is it red? Is it crotchless?"

"No. And no, but I do appreciate the image."

He hands her a hard beige cylinder and she turns it over with some confusion. "It's...a very small spaceship? A roomba? A bizarre new hair straightener?" The girls broke hers last week pretending it was a pair of barbecue tongs.

"Nope."

She spins it in her hand. It's about the size of a potato, dotted with small holes and a tiny, almost imperceptible, on-off switch. _Oh._

"A sex toy. Should have been my first guess."

"No."

"_No_?"

"No, but you're getting warmer."

"I give up."

"So easily?"

She gives it a little shake.

"Hey, don't break it!"

"How fragile could it be? This isn't some kind of - portable plastic surgery device, is it? Mark?"

"_No._ And I told you five times already, the last thing you need is plastic surgery. You - are - _perfect. And getting more so every year. _" He separates each word with a kiss, starting just below her jawline, working his way down her neck, and stopping just short of the black lace edge of her bra.

"Then what is it?"

"This" - he takes it from her - "is no other than a state-of-the-art, German made, 700 megahertz white-noise machine."

"What?"

"Forget the name. _This _is our key to your real birthday present."

"Which is..."

"Don't sound so suspicious. No-holds-barred, getting-all-crazy, birthday present. Like I used to give you. Before-"

"Before we got all domesticated."

"Domestication is reversible."

"The kids..."

"...won't hear a thing. It's _German made_, Addison. It was tested at a rocket launch. It cost enough for a down payment on a decent apartment. Not a sound is escaping this room."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well." Her cheeks flush slightly. "_Well._ Happy birthday to me."

Because the tired thing is real - it's not that she doesn't want him. Or that she doesn't _get _him - they do everything they can to keep the spark alive. Wherever and however they can do it. And it's alive - it's just, well, frequently put out by nighttime visitors, under-the-bed monsters that need to be extinguished, drinks of water, one-more-story-please-just-this-once, and squabbles. Sex with Mark is - she has to be honest - fantastic. Past, present, and (she assumes) future. But sex when two children under four live in your house means creativity. Speed. Quiet. Not the sort of sweaty, no-holds-barred, scream-yourself-hoarse sessions she still remembers. Still thinks about. Of course, if this noise machine really _does_ work... she looks over at her husband, whose expression is somewhere between _wicked _and ... oh, who cares. She wants him. Needs him.

Mark meets her eye, grins, and flicks on the white-noise machine. The room is flooded with a gentle _whooshing_ noise.

"See?"

"Is it really working?"

"I promise." He lets his lips trail slowly down her neck, taking his time - the benefit of the white-noise machine - enjoying the feel of her shifting beneath him, the vibrating hum of the low moans escaping her lips. He props himself on an elbow, frees his other hand to smooth its way up one of her thighs, feeling satin skin stretched over firm muscle, then the softer flesh at its inner curve. Her lips are warm, welcoming, and she sighs into his mouth.

He takes his time undressing her too, sliding black lace down the impressive length of her legs, kissing his way back up. She squirms and makes throaty noises that nearly undo him. Then they can't wait anymore and make short work of what's left of each other's clothing, until it's nothing but skin and skin and the soft _whoosh_ of the machine, her moist breaths in his ear and the feel of her heat against his questing fingers. He's using his thumb in that way she loves - she's clenched one leg around him in response, muscles knotted with anticipation, breaths high and tight, when -

"Shit!"

The knock on the door shouldn't surprise them. But they jump anyway, knocking her head into Mark's chin, and for a moment they just grasp each other, eyes watering, mouthing apologies. He pulls his fingers free, thanking any deity he can think of that they installed the lock they rarely use.

They look at each other "How-"

Addison gestures meaningfully at her own head, mouthing _E.S.P._ Mark laughs, rolling out of bed with a groan and padding to the door.

It will be Vivian, of course. Older, bolder - they don't label their children out loud, but privately Vivian is the stubborn one. The perfectionist. She'll cry if a drawing doesn't look the way she wants it to and argue loudly for a later bedtime with anyone who'll listen. Gable, just a year younger, is milder, calmer, more mellow - until she's crossed. They fight passionately with each other and Mark encourages it - he's raising strong women, he likes to remind her. Ones who don't take any crap.

"Daddy?"

Addison rolls over, muffling her laughter in the sheets.

"Yeah, Viv."

Addison sits up, watching Mark talk to their daughter through the closed door.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, right now's not a great time, sweetie. What's wrong?"

Long pause. Vivian's never been a good liar. Gable, on the other hand...

Then her little voice pipes up again: "I want to ask you something."

"What is it?"

Another long pause.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm - we're-"

Addison realizes this is going to be a lost cause and fumbles in the sheets for Mark's discarded boxers. Seizing on them, she tosses them over. _Thanks_, he mouths. Struggling into them, nearly tripping, he -

"What are you doing?" Vivian calls.

"I'm - uh - wrapping Mommy's birthday present."

Addison presses her fist to her mouth to keep from laughing at the truth of it.

"What's her present?"

"It's a surprise," Mark says hurriedly.

Addison has just flopped back onto her pillows, giving up on their quiet night, when-

"I'll go back to bed then."

"Really? Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. You should wrap Mommy's present. 'Cause it's her birthday tomorrow. I'm okay," Viv says bravely.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You're a big girl." He rests his hand against the door for a moment, thinking of her little hand on the other side of it. "But you know if you need us-"

"I'll come back."

"Right. Good night, Viv."

"Night."

They listen to her little feet padding down the hall.

"That was close."

"Very close."

"Too close?"

"Just close enough."

Addison sighs deeply. "Well, now I'm not really in the mood."

"What?" Mark freezes with both hands at the waistband of his boxer briefs. His face falls. "Oh. Well, okay. Another night."

"_Mark!_" Addison throws a pillow at him. "I was kidding! You're such a gentleman, though. I really do appreciate it."

His face brightens immediately - then darkens again. "That was _not_ funny." He makes short work of the remaining fabric.

"Sorry."

"Well." He ambles back to the bed, slowly, letting her enjoy the view. "I guess you can make it up to me."

"Maybe. Or..."

"Or?"

"Or you can punish me."

He looks up and she lifts an eyebrow, settling back on the bed, giving him a mock-insolent glare. Everything that had started falling back asleep perks up at the sight.

"You mean like...a time-out?"

She shakes her head slowly, rosy and flushed and glowing in the low light.

He nearly trips bounding back to the bed. Addison has just enough time to flick on the German white-noise machine before he reaches her. Her birthday comes with the stroke of midnight.

So does she.

(Twice.)

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><p><em>Wasn't that a nice (brief) break from all the angst? Review and let me know! And Happy 21st Birthday, Rachael!<em>


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